


Writer

by Daisy_Rivers



Category: Hamilton - Miranda (Broadway Cast) RPF
Genre: F/M, Love, Obsession, Writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-28
Updated: 2018-06-28
Packaged: 2019-05-29 16:48:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15077474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daisy_Rivers/pseuds/Daisy_Rivers
Summary: In my mind, this writer is Rafael Casal, but if you want it to be a different writer, that's good too. Also, the reader's gender isn't specified; I tagged the relationship M/F because, again, that's what's in my head, but anybody is welcome in this reader-insert fic.





	Writer

It’s two o’clock in the morning when you wake up, and the other side of the bed is empty and cold. You know he was there when you went to sleep a few hours ago. You also know where he is now.

You go pee, get a drink of water, and head downstairs, your bare feet silent on the carpet. You stop at the bottom of the steps and watch. The kitchen stove light is on, and he’s at the table with his laptop open, typing furiously. Of course he is. He doesn’t notice you. When he’s in this zone, he wouldn’t notice a herd of elephants in pink tutus.

The downstairs reeks of smoke, and he’s got a cigarette between his lips now. You sigh. You wish he would quit, and he knows it, but he never said he would. He never promised you anything he wasn’t a hundred percent sure he could deliver, which means he’s made very few promises. One of those few was that he would never lie to you, and he never has. If he ever stops loving you, he’ll tell you. It’s an odd kind of security, but it’s better than most of your friends have.

He blows out some smoke and leans in close to reread what he has just written, gives an impatient huff and makes a change, then another one. He’s almost a silhouette against the small dim light, but you can see the edge of his mouth and the shadows of his eyes behind his glasses and just a glint of gold in his hair. He doesn’t have a shirt on, and his back muscles look tight. You can tell just by looking now, after all this time. His neck will be stiff in the morning.

You debate speaking to him, trying to coax him to come back to bed and get some sleep, but it seems pointless. Whatever had awakened him or maybe kept him from going to sleep at all had compelled him to write it down – a line, a verse, a handful of words, even, could stop him in his tracks. You’ve known him to turn off the road halfway to a party you’d never gotten to when something irresistible came into his head. There had been a time, early on, when you thought it was melodramatic and had wondered unfairly if it was a bit of a performance. You had challenged him once, and he had taken your hands in his, looked into your eyes.

“I can’t _not_ ,” he’d said, every word distinctly enunciated. “If the words are there, I can’t not write them.” He made it sound as if he had no control. Maybe he doesn’t. You’ve seen him in the grip of the words a thousand times now, and it is as much a compulsion as drink or drugs. He goes without sleep or food or even showering, and you bring him glasses of water and remind him to use the bathroom. It is very far from being a performance.

You knew who he was before you committed your heart to his keeping, a man obsessed by words and sparing of promises, but also a man of astonishing physical beauty and deep passions for more things than words. His smile can charm the birds out of the trees, and wordsmith that he is, he can tell you that he loves you in a thousand ways. If his work will always be his mistress – and it will – you will always be the one he returns to when all the words have been poured out and he is exhausted, limp and tractable as an infant. He will crawl into your arms weeping until it passes, and he can swallow some soup and put on clean clothes. You’re the only one who sees him like that. The first time it happened, he murmured to you between sobs, “You are my safe place.” You wept with him then, understanding the profound courage it took for him to strip himself down to such vulnerability before another person. That was when you knew how much you loved him, and knew just as certainly how much he loved you. That’s never wavered.

There’s no way to know how long it will last this time. It lasts until the words are done. He may sleep a little near dawn, and you will open the windows and let the smoke blow out, clean the ashtrays, make tea with sugar and hope that he will drink it. You will stand behind his chair and rub his shoulders to loosen the muscles, although he will probably swat your hand away impatiently. You know it helps, though, because he’s told you, later. For now, there’s nothing you can do.

Your heart contracts as you watch him, and you will a message to him. It’s not that you think he will hear it, but speech is useless right now, and you’ve gotten in the habit of doing this. _I love you,_ you send to him. _I’ll be here when you need me._

You go upstairs and go back to bed.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Can't believe I wrote something under 1,000 words. Tell me what you think.


End file.
